


Forty Bones

by Ahmerst



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life, one that contains fucking on a desk and hair pulling, rating will go up in future chapters, you see it starts out tame but we're going on a journey folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahmerst/pseuds/Ahmerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aoba never thinks much of the florist shop he works next to, more preoccupied with making a living as a part time barista and full time sass master. But then one day he's forced to enter it, and finds what he's been missing out on all along. Or really, who.</p><p>[Edit: Chapter order fixed, as chapter 4 was accidentally posted in the place of chapter 3.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Talk about a short chapter, but we have to start somewhere, yeah?
> 
> This is a commissioned piece, so if you read it and are like, hot dang, I want something too, you can find my commission post [here](http://ahmerst.tumblr.com/post/56193290138/as-my-hours-at-work-have-been-cut-to-an-unlivable).

Aoba knows nothing of the flower shop other than that it’s from before his time. That would be impressive, he thinks, if ‘his time’ didn’t constitute four months of serving up coffee next to it. The buildings share a wall of brick and stone between them, and not much else.

The neighboring building seems almost fictional to Aoba. The clean but semi lifeless storefront filled with flowers looking like something off a movie lot. Like if he walked through the door there’d be nothing but dry wall and plaster and discarded materials inside, remnants of an unfinished set.

But he sees people come and go, coffee in their hands as they go to pick out bouquets, or a succulent under their arm as they enter to order their frappes. They don’t speak of the flower shop owner, and Aoba never asks. He’s seen the broad back of the man who owns the place, and not much else.

The only other constant is the motorcycle outside the shop from open to close.

Labor laws don’t apply when you’re a one man show, Aoba supposes.

So the flower shop stays not only tucked against his workplace, but in the back of his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

The flower shop comes back to him when a regular sticks a single long-stemmed rose into the tip jar. It’s a nice thought, and Aoba almost appreciates it. He could in full if the guy wasn’t such a royal pain in the ass every time he came in. A solitary rose does not a ten minute long wait for his order make up for.

“You think with as many times as you’ve come here, you’d have half an idea of what you want to drink,” Aoba says as he serves up the drink. There’s no name written on it. He stopped doing so after the man made a point of constantly telling him he was spelling it wrong.

Not his fault if Noise or Noys or whatever the fuck isn’t exactly the most common name this side of the moon.

“You’re the one who’s told me to be more adventurous,” the man says as he takes his cup, brings it to his lips to sip it before pausing as steam spills from the slit of the lid.

“No, what I told you was that you’re going to rot your teeth out if you keep ordering nothing but sugary stuff,” Aoba says, 

“I can’t help it if I like the sweet ones," the man says, and it takes a fierce determination for Aoba not to roll his eyes so hard they leave their sockets.

He stares at the man with eyes so green and vivid they seem backlit. Takes in the sharp cut of high cheekbones that are touched with the lightest layer of remaining babyfat. Watches the light from overly bright IKEA lamps glint off too much metal around the guy’s mouth. And ears. Even his eyebrows aren’t safe from alteration. 

It’s easier to take in each small stud and barbell and ring than it is to watch him as he takes a rose from the inside of his blazer like that’s an everyday thing and sticks it into the tip jar as though it’s a miniature vase. The rose tips awkwardly to one side, stem too long, and Aoba makes no move to fix it. Makes no move to so much as acknowledge it. He’s made it this far in life by feigning an ignorance of social cues or romantic overtures and hamfisted attempts at flirtation, and he’s not about to stop now.

The man leaves after that, and Aoba fills the quiet down time with the wiping clean of empty tables, the polishing of all things reflective, and the wait for more customers.

It’s not long before the gentle ring of bells sound as the door is opened, and Aoba needs only glance at the clock to know who it is.

“The usual?” he asks as he goes around the counter, giving his hands a quick rinse before he turns to the register.

“Eager to get rid of me so quickly, eh?” Koujaku asks, grin roguish as he folds his arms over his chest.

“Something like that. You know how hard it can be to handle the hoard that tends to follow you in here. I am but a single man.”

“One with an admirer,” Koujaku adds, his brow arching as he looks toward the tip jar. 

“Ugh, don’t even start me on that. It was metal face again. He practically pulled it out of thin air. Who does that? I mean, _really_ does that, walks around with a flower to whip out like that.”

Koujaku shrugs, and the distaste that curls his lips is something far from uncommon when the suitor is brought up.

“Bet he got it next door. What a third rate effort from a third rate guy. I swear, I don’t know why you keep it half cordial with him.”

It’s Aoba’s turn to shrug then,

“He’s not that bad. Well, not the worst, anyway. Sure he’s kind of weird, but I mean, you know how he is,” Aoba says. He makes a vague gesture at the air as though the words he truly wants to speak can be pulled from it.

“German,” Koujaku supplies.

Aoba balks.

“Don’t you dare try and pull the weird German card.”

“Nothing more than a suggestion,” Koujaku says, and he pulls back from the counter to eye the display case full of baked goods.

Their exchange from then on out is as predictable as it’s been for months now. The same pleasantries and questions spoken many times over with the same answers given. Customers trickle into the shop as they speak, and its as the women arrive in the hopes of an on the spot haircut that Aoba starts to wave Koujaku out.

As the fresh crowd comes and goes, a steady stream of tips makes itself comfortable with the single rose. When it comes time to close, the register accounted for and the sign flipped, he empties the jar. He puts the rose back in place once he’s done, pockets the spare bills and change, and leaves.

As he jostles the handle of the door one last time to make sure it’s locked, he turns his head to look at the shop next to him. There’s a light from behind the glass front, dim and barely there, but someone’s inside. The motorcycle still parked at the curb assures him of that. He wonders what’s it like in there, and tells himself he’ll check inside eventually. When it’s not so late.


	3. Chapter 3

Aoba leaves the rose to wilt as the days pass. It’s not an unattractive change as the petals fade from rich blood reds to washed out maroons, the colors on par with a faded newspaper. It’s pretty, he decides. Like the melting of an ice sculpture, a natural shift that can’t be stopped. Better it be in the shop than on his bedside, an awkward acceptance of the gesture.

He collects each petal when it falls, lets it rest in his palm before he places it in the trash. He studies them with more interest than he ever did his homework, hard enough that when his coil sounds it sends a squeak to his throat that he’s quick to clamp down on.

“This better be good,” Aoba says as he answers the phone, because you can only know someone for so many years before ‘hello’ becomes the stalest way to greet them.

“It is, don’t worry," Koujaku starts. “Remember that time when you used my shears to cut out coupons and dulled them?”

“You’re not still mad about that, are you?”

“Of course I am, but that’s not the point. Mostly I’m calling to say I was wrong. Wrong that I was at Tae-levels of angry.”

In the background, Aoba picks up an extra thread of speech. It’s a familiar roar, a slew of ‘good for nothing’s and ‘won’t feed him for at least a week’ that Aoba’s heard a hundred times before.

“Are you-- are you at my house?” Aoba asks, though he knows the answer already.

“Figured I’d drop off the tupperware Tae sent me home with last time, y’know, as is polite,” Koujaku says. 

Aoba’s gaze flickers to the clock. Of course he’d drop by right before dinner. Of course.

“And wouldn’t you know it, Tae was having a conniption about a certain someone leaving the door unlocked. And the faucet on.”

Oh fuck, double whammy. Aoba doubted Grams would accept the fact that he’d been called in early as an excuse for both transgressions. She never had before.

“Basically, I’m trying to let you know that-- yes, yes I’m letting him know, Tae. He’s good for nothing, yep, filled him in on that. Yeah, the no dinner thing too-- anyway, right. What I’m trying to say is that if you want to have a roof over your head tonight, you might want to bring home a grand daddy peace offering. Or you could crash with me until this all blows over.”

“Oh, wow. A free pass to stay the night at the bachelor pad of the finest womanizer on the streets. How could I ever pass that up,” Aoba monotones.

“So you’ll come over?” Koujaku asks, a hopeful note in his voice. 

Something crashes in the background.

“As wildly tempting as that would be for most people, I’ll pass. You can’t let Grams stew over this sort of thing. Her anger grows until it practically has its own corporeal form. That shit gets scary. I’m pretty sure it’s how poltergeists come to exist.”

There’s a disappointed noise on the other end, and Aoba can practically see the dopey hurt look on Koujaku’s face.

“Suit yourself, then. I’ll be sure to write up a nice eulogy for you if things get sour.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” Aoba says before their call comes to an end.

He spends the rest of his shift half-focused on orders, half-focused on how real he thinks ghosts are. He doesn’t feel entirely done with his life just yet, and he hopes that if murder is for dinner, he can at least come back to hang around. If anything, he’ll haunt Koujaku until he joins him. Mizuki, he figures, would not take to being haunted half as well, the poor guy.

It’s as he flips the sign for the night and takes to sweeping the floor that a burst of last minute genius hits him. The perfect apology gift to hide his mistakes behind.

Flowers.

He’s seen it a million times, in the form of commercials and printed ads, the handing over of a bouquet, the quelling of a woman’s scorn. A tactic as old as time, and one he’s never seen not work. Not that he’s ever actually tried it.

He checks the time with a wince as he shrugs on his coat. Half past nine isn’t exactly optimal flower shopping time, but he crosses his fingers and hopes he can snag a little something. He hasn’t used puppy dog eyes since grade school, but he’s not above dusting them off in the name of placating Grams.

He takes the ten steps that separate his door from the florist’s, squints in the darkness to read the hours. There are no hours. Not posted on the window, or written in fading paint. He finds for the first time that there isn’t as much as a name for the storefront. But the light is on, always on, and when he tries the knob, it opens for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Aoba’s first thought is that it’s cozy, which isn’t a word he’s ever applied to a flower shop before. He’s come to expect a certain coolness, crisp temperatures maintained for the longevity of the product. Clear display cases that are color coordinated and neatly organized. A mingling of floral scents, light and easily blending.

The smell here is heady and sweet instead, a hazy sort of smokiness that he can’t entirely place, isn’t sure he has an experience with. The temperature is far from cold, instead dry and bordering on warm. The flowers he sees laid out aren’t exactly disorganized, but the flow of them is unexpected. It reminds him of his own room, a kind of deliberate mess in which he can pick things out with ease.

Flowers have never been his forte, and beyond the odd daisy and orchid, they blend together, colors and shapes, stems without names. He worries his lower lip as he eyes them, hands in his pockets when he leans in for closer inspection. There are no prices listed, no signs stating what they are. There is no distraction from the pieces themselves.

When he reaches a hand out to admire a small bundle of roses, he finds a sharpness meeting his fingertips. He jerks back automatically with the softest of surprised hisses, a noise that whistles through clenched teeth. When he takes a look at his hand, he finds a red and angry, but at least bloodless, mark.

He raises it to his mouth and presses his lips to it, sucks the skin for a moment to soothe it as he decides it’s best to look with his eyes and not with his hands.

His teeth nearly sink into the skin when there’s a clearing of a throat behind him. A short, curt noise that doesn’t make his heart stop so much as reverse at forty five miles an hour until it hits a brick wall. He turns with all the grace of a newborn foal, entirely unsure of what body parts go where, and which ones he’s even in control of.

He finds himself face to face with a chest.

That doesn’t seem right.

His gaze flickers upwards and ah, yes. That’s right. There’s a face, and it kind of registers all at once. Strong cheekbones and dark, arched brows. The face is not lined with age so much as a certain wisdom, and the weariness that comes with it.

“May I help you?” he asks, and he has the voice of an expertly-played cello.

Aoba opens his mouth to say that yes, he does need help. That he’s going to be murdered in cold granny blood if he doesn’t make amends for fucking up. His tongue dips and curves as his vocal chords work, his response on his lips before he can sift it through his brain to make sure it’s appropriate.

“I fucked up,” is what comes out.

And now he’s fucked up twice.

The florist blinks in the slow, precise way a cat does as it sizes someone up. In the way that says he is taking in every stupid word Aoba strung together and spit out without thinking. He says nothing in turn.

Or if he does, Aoba doesn’t hear it. He’s out of the shop faster than it took for him to make a fool of himself, which was record time to begin with. He pushes his way past the door and out into the night without looking back. That’s not an option now. This shit has officially reached Sodom and Gomorrah levels. One glance back and he’s as good as a salt pillar.

He wonders if this is grounds for removing himself from life, or at least the gene pool. There have to be a half dozen creeps that would do it for free on Craigslist without wanting so much as a penny. Those people take payment in skin suits, he’s sure. A skin suit would probably be more adept as social interaction at this point than he is anyway.

His feet carry him through the streets, past darkened shops and lively bars. His mind plays the scene again and again, the bite of embarrassment as he recalls his response. He goes over it in his head a hundred times, each time with a new, better response. One that doesn’t have him coming off as the biggest idiot to walk into the store.

It’s only the ache that comes with walking too long and too far that snaps him out of the Groundhog day scenario of his mind. He looks up at the street signs, squints in the dim light of the lamps. He’s managed to walk himself in the same circles his brain has been doing ever since he bolted. He’s not far from home, but he’s not close either.

More importantly, he knows there’s no way he can skulk back in there as though nothing happened.

When he shows up at Mizuki’s bar with his head hanging low, Mizuki doesn’t ask questions. He offers a clap on the back and a strong drink instead. Accepting both is the best thing Aoba’s done all day, he decides. Accepting a second drink is even better. The third is a questionable decision, but by then his blood is running warm and his tongue is loose, and the events of the day are spilling from his mouth as Mizuki wipes down the counters and flips the bar stools.

“And here I thought you were coming in so glum because of girl trouble,” Mizuki says as Aoba wraps up his retelling of events.

They look at one another for a moment, then break into the identical laughter that comes from years of friendship. Girl trouble hasn’t been a blip on Aoba’s radar for so long he forgot it could be a thing, and Mizuki is well aware of it.

That night Aoba finds himself not at home or at Koujaku’s, but sprawled on the couch of Mizuki’s apartment above the Black Needle bar. He has a leopard-print snuggie to keep him warm, a tall glass of water to ward off a hangover, and pajamas that don’t entirely fit him. It’s not a bad end for a bad day, and by the time morning rolls around and he finds himself waking to the smell of fatty, fried foods, the troubles of the day past seem faded and nearly unreal.

They stay that way until he makes his way back to work that afternoon, hears the familiar sound of the door chiming as he enters, and sees the unfamiliar sight that is a bouquet of flowers on the counter.

The same flowers he’d pricked his finger on the night before.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally flubbed the chapters and skipped over one, but it's now been corrected. Sorry for the confusion!

Aoba tells himself those can’t be the flowers he’d been interested in last night. They all more or less look the same to him. Half-open blooms and colorful petals, long stems with sharp thorns. Or at least, there had been thorns. As he picks the bouquet up now, searching it desperately for the smallest sign that it’s not the same, that’s the sole difference.

There are marks where they had been, telltale discoloration and an unnatural smoothness. 

“The gentleman from next door brought them over,” says Aoba’s boss as he comes out of the backroom, his hands clasped excitedly together as they tend to be. “Said you’d been looking at them last night.”

“Oh,” is all Aoba can say, and he finds himself suddenly very aware of how much blood his body holds as it all seems to rush to his head at once. He turns the bouquet over his hands in search of the price. “How much are they?”

“He said nothing of the sort,” says Aoba’s boss. He pushes his glasses up his nose with a frown, like he doesn’t know why they would cost Aoba a dime.

A polite, empty smile curves Aoba’s lips as he goes to his workstation, hiding the flowers beneath the counter before putting all his remaining spoons into switching his mind to work mode. He can’t think about this, not right now. He knows the yoga class rush will be in here any minute, and the last thing he needs to be mulling over is the meaning behind the gift.

Not that it’s truly a gift. He won’t let it be one. He’ll march right in there and fork over the cost of those bad boys. Why would it be a gift anyway, he asks himself. The florist probably took pity on his socially incompetent ass and is making the transaction easier. That has to be it.

“I said no whipped cream, but okay,” says the voice that eventually snaps him from the tangle of his thoughts. 

Aoba looks up, an apology already fumbling its way off his lips, and meets olive green eyes.

Mizuki.

“Oh my god, how can you look at me like that?” Mizuki says. “Did you seriously only just get that it’s me? Earth to Aoba, wow.”

He waves a hand in front of Aoba’s face, and Aoba flinches back with a scowl. 

“I was thinking hard, okay?”

“Too hard, apparently.”

“Thanks for the input, ass hat. Maybe next time I’ll make your coffee solely whipped cream.”

Mizuki chuckles as he takes his cup, shakes his head like there’s no hope for his friend. Aoba lets his hands come to rest on his hips as he scans the shop. It’s empty save for a couple tucked in a corner, their attentions solely focused on one another. There’s no line in the least, no lollygagger peering in from the outside, and Aoba figures he has the time to spare a few words for Mizuki.

He snags the cup back and pops off the lid, takes an awkward bite of whipped cream before he hands it back. Mizuki clucks his tongue at the act, too impressed by the bizarre fix to the mistake to actually stop him.

“Alrighty then, these hard thoughts. Tell me the deets. Who, what, when, where, and most importantly, are they cute?”

Aoba’s jaw unhinges in a gawk as he levels Mizuki with a look. Leave it to him to strike the situation in a single sentence. He pauses a moment to recount the amount of information Mizuki wants condensed down, lets his gaze flicker to the ceiling as he finds the words he wants. As usual, they’re difficult and hard to mouth.

“Who, uh... I don’t actually know his name, I guess,” Aoba starts. “And as for what, well...”

When he pulls the flowers from beneath the counter, Mizuki lets out a low whistle of appreciation. 

“That certainly answers a lot of questions, excluding the cute part. So come on, pony up the info.”

“As if I remember that,” Aoba says, rolling his eyes. “I hardly had time to look at the flowers, let alone his face. Not to mention it’s totally irrelevant what he looks like.”

“Is it, Aoba? Is it really?” Mizuki says with narrowed eyes, his sly smile not quite hidden behind his drink. “Last I checked, it’s mondo relevant. A cute guy gives you free flowers, you follow up on that shit.”

“They weren’t free, I’m going to pay for them.”

“I bet there’s no price, even. How about this, because I’m such a pal,” Mizuki starts, setting his half-finished coffee down, “I’ll nip on over there, see what they’re going to cost you.” 

“Don’t you dare. I can handle this fine on my own,” Aoba says, his tone voicing the complete opposite. He wasn’t sure which was harder to handle, the idea of going back into the shop, or Mizuki going in his place.

Mizuki’s smile turns foxy, his hand raising in a quick wave before he’s gone, the bells that adorn the door chiming in his wake.

The next fifteen minutes pass with a brutal slowness, and Aoba drinks the rest of Mizuki’s coffee as punishment. There’s a tremble in his hands as he downs the last of it, his eyes locking on the door as Mizuki reenters.

His hands are jammed deep into his pockets, and from the swagger of his step to the smirk that still curves his lips, his posturing puts Aoba on edge for his next words.

“First of all, how could you _not_ have noticed his looks,” and here, Mizuki makes an okay sign with his fingers as he winks, “and secondly, I let him know you’ll be by after work.”


	6. Chapter 6

Aoba locks the door with unsure hands that night, the fresh bouquet tucked under his arm and his heart tapping out a too-fast rhythm. He focuses hard on his breath, two seconds inhale, three seconds exhale. Right, he’s got this. Why wouldn’t he? He can walk in there and hand over some cash no problem.

He’ll never have to go back after this, and the thought gives him the briefest moment of relief as he forces his feet the few yards between the shops. The dim light that burns from the back is still on, and he shoulders the door open with the last of the courage he has.

No one greets him.

He debates for a moment calling out, but decides quickly that’s too much an invitation for things to take a turn for a slasher flick. One doesn’t simply walk into seemingly empty shops late at night and announce their arrival. Not if they want to keep their head and other various limbs intact, at least.

He makes his way to the back of the shop with soft steps, eyeing the flowers he passes in an attempt to find the match. He reaches out only when he finds a near identical match, fingers careful to steer clear of sharp points as he fishes for the small white price tag that hangs from it. There’s a neatly written ‘40‘ on it.

As he moves on, the shop changes the further he walks. The light fragrance of all things floral remains, but it’s steadily overpowered by heavier notes, ones he’s overly familiar with after months of high exposure. It’s the strong, sure scent of coffee.

He finds the owner finally near the back, tucked behind a desk, elbows resting on hardwood and eyes downward cast as his pen-occupied hand moves across a page. The writing stops when Aoba nears, though the man doesn’t immediately look up.

“I— sorry,” Aoba starts, already hates himself for how unsure he sounds, “I know it’s late, and I’m sure you’re closed, but I wanted to pay for these.”

He places the flowers on the counter, taking his wallet out to rifle through it for a few bills. When he looks up to hand them over, he meets the man’s eyes, pauses as he takes them in this time. The cat-gold of them compliments the feline blink he’d given Aoba before. They look at him with a directness that’s not quite scrutinizing, yet not entirely free of judgment.

“I don’t recall selling you those,” the man says.

Aoba stares back. He wants to say something in turn, to argue that he should be allowed to pay, but words are failing him in his usual way. He’s too concentrated on Mizuki’s earlier assurance of the florist’s good looks. He wasn’t wrong. He was so far from wrong that Aoba finds himself surprised that he hadn’t noticed the night before.

“They’re for my grandma,” Aoba says, like that explains everything.

“I was made aware.”

Cool. Thanks, Mizuki. Aoba makes a mental reminder to slug him in the shoulder the next time he shows that mug of his, which probably won’t be too far in the future. For now, he slides the bills across the table as though they carry the weight of blood money. He doesn’t look at the man again, lets his eyes fall on the stained old coffee pot that rests on the counter behind him.

The man doesn’t push the money back toward him, nor does he accept it. He instead lets his gaze lower, hand once again moving as he writes. Aoba rolls his lower lip between his teeth for some new thread of conversation to emerge, whether from himself or the man, but nothing appears. The quiet between them continues, not quite awkward, not wholly unstrained.

“Have a nice evening,” Aoba says as he turns to leave. There’s nothing more to be said, and a small part of him that he can’t understand wishes there was.

He walks more slowly than he needs to as he goes home. Something about it all strikes him as anti-climactic, like a climb to the top of a roller coaster only for the machine to break before the freefall. He tells himself it’s for the best, proof that all his nerves and anxieties are unfounded. That he’s not the world’s most socially inept creature to walk the face of the earth, even if he is still a solid third or fourth.

Grams is waiting up for him when he steps through the door and out of his shoes. She gives him an earful, then another. He hands over the flowers with distracted apologies, and while she continues to spout off at him, she takes them in her arms and hurries off to find them a vase.

It’s half past midnight by the time he makes it upstairs, his body and mind both competing for which can be the most exhausted. He tosses his day clothes aside with a yawn, steps into sleeping shorts before he’s flopping face-forward on the bed. In his mind the events of the day are recounted, scrutinized, and stored.

He doesn’t think he’ll see the florist again, he has no reason to. There’s a funny sort of pang in his heart he can’t entirely identify at the thought. It’s a kind of yearning that has muddled lines of what exactly it wants. More, he supposes. He wants something more from the man, even if he’s unsure of exactly what.

He resigns himself to the feeling, decides it’ll be another empty hole in his life that he’ll have to find another way to fill. The man will remain nameless and abstract, as near unreal as the shop he works in.

At least until the next day when he walks in the door and right up to the counter.


	7. Chapter 7

The florist comes during a slow lull in the late afternoon. The quiet time when the it‘s too late for an afternoon pick me up, and not quite late enough for the hipsters and the get-to-know-you coffee dates to start trickling in. There’s a quick gust from the chilled outdoors as the door opens, the small pile of straw-wrappers and spilled sugar packet that Aoba had been sweeping up scattering easily across the floor.

He looks up without really focusing on the customer, flashes the practiced smile he gives to all customers. Small, kind, and simplistic. Not much effort.

“Welcome,” he says warmly as he straightens up. “I’ll be with you in one moment.”

It’s as he brushes his bangs from his eyes that he recognizes who it is.

His heart gives a little twist in two different directions. It hurts and it’s nice at once, a sweet kind of excitement and anxiety. 

What Aoba notices about the man-- and not for the first time-- as he approaches the register is how tall he is. Standing in front of Aoba, he seems all broad shoulders and height. The kind of build that makes Aoba think of the words 'good stock.’ There’s something about him that’s not exactly imposing, but very much there. As though he exists in some stronger way than those around him.

“Is something wrong?” Aoba asks as he looks up, meets those warm amber eyes as his hands hover over the key to the register. Something has to be, why else would he be here? With Aoba’s luck, he short changed the guy and then some with the flowers.

“I’d like to place an order.”

“Oh, right,” Aoba says, voice teetering on an empty sort of blankness. That’s why people come into coffee shops. To get coffee. “What can I get for you?”

“What would you consider good?” the man asks. He doesn’t look at the menu.

It’s a question Aoba hears every day, every hour. He has a canned response in his head, a list of favorites, suggestions, substitutions for those that need them. They’ve rolled off his tongue until it’s an automatic reaction, one spoken so many times they carry all the smoothness of water.

But now that water is stuck in his throat, choking him as tries to stutter them out. His teeth grind for a moment as he strings his sentences together, steels himself to speak. This is his store. He’s king of the castle here, and he won’t be made a fool of now.

“Everything,” he says. “Everything is good.”

“Is that so?” the man asks, brow arching.

“Well of course, I’m the one making it after all,” Aoba says.

It comes out haughtier and higher than he means for it too, and for a second his gaze freezes on the man’s face. Waits for that arched brow to fall as he breaks into a laugh at the airs that Aoba’s put on. Mizuki’s never going to let him live this one down. He catches the drop of a brow, holds his breath for the three, two, one until the laughter starts.

“Then something with some cinnamon shouldn’t be too hard for you to manage,” the man says.

And that’s it.

“What size?” Aoba asks, as per policy. 

The man shrugs.

“Milk? Lowfat? Nonfat?”

He shrugs again. Aoba narrows his eyes, there’s a spark of courage in him now, and assurance that this man is nothing to be overwhelmed by. Hell, he half seems like the usual unsure customer.

“Whipped cream?”

“As long as there’s cinnamon, I have no preferences,” the man says. He doesn’t shrug this time, but his voice sounds like it is.

“Right then,” Aoba says, fingers skipping across the register as he starts. “Four thirty-six is your total.”

The man pays with exact change.

“And your name?” Aoba asks as he bumps the register drawer closed with his hip, hand grabbing a cup as the other takes up a sharpie.

There’s a quiet in place of a response after that. Aoba waits, his smile fixed as he does so. He’s not letting the man get away without giving at least that much information. The man turns his head slowly from side to side, eyes the spots where no one sits. The shop is empty in its entirety. 

“Name,” Aoba prompts.

“There’s no one here.”

“Policy,” Aoba says.

He raises his eyes to meet the man’s gaze and doesn’t blink. Aoba isn’t going to back down. The flower shop and the man that runs it has become more real to him than ever, and the part of him that wants it to stay that way is growing.

The man blinks first.

“Mink,” he says.

“Mink,” Aoba repeats, writing it as he speaks. He likes the way it brings his lips together, hums through his mouth as he speaks it. “I’ll have your drink ready in just a minute.”

A minute turns into two, followed by three. Aoba’s nerves steady as he goes through the muscle-memory movements of the preparation. He spends his time carefully crafting the drink, presentation neat and clean in the end as he goes to top it off with whipped cream. It’s blended and cold, likely to be too sweet, but the day is unseasonably warm and the faint hollows beneath Mink’s eyes say he could use the sugar to keep him awake.

Their fingers brush as he hands the drink over, and electricity zips fast through Aoba’s skin, raises the hair on his arms and leaves goosebumps in its path. It's not unexpected, it's not surprising. It’s entirely intentional on his behalf. 

He wants to touch Mink, however brief. Wants to know his name, the feel of his skin. Wants to hear his voice until he can recall it with ease. The florist is becoming very real, very fast, and it’s set off a slow and growing burn inside of Aoba. He wishes he had a more heartfelt and sincere reason to want this behind the flirtatious flutter of his heart, but he's young and prone to the will of his hormones.

There's nothing wrong with a little autumn pining, not when it won’t lead to anything.

"Have a nice day;" Aoba says as Mink turns to leave. He wants to chime in with something extra, to say that he really means in. He tells himself instead to hold his hormonal horses.

He's made one step forward, now isn’t the time to take two steps back.

Mink raises his free hand in a movement that isn't a wave, but an adieu. There's a new sort of silence once he's left, and the giddiness that had made itself comfortable in Aoba's chest without his own knowing dwindles along with the sunlight.

He cleans the counters three times before he notices something in the tip jar. Two bills, both twenties. Forty bones.

This is war.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter than usual chapter today, but there will be another, longer one posted in the next few days.

Aoba spends four days trying to decide how best to fork the money back over. Being direct is a method already tried, and not at all true. Mink has no trouble serving up the same to him, that he’s shown. Walking into the florist’s shop would be a useless exercise, one Aoba’s not yet willing to tackle with the scene he put on the first time he was in there. Sure, the second time went well enough, but it almost went too well.

Nothing says weird and overbearing like repeatedly trying to shove money at someone, and when Aoba approaches Mizuki with the situation, he’s far from helpful.

“Shove it down his pants,” is the first suggestion he gives. He’s two drinks in, and Aoba wonders how strong those drinks were.

“I’m sure that’d go over swimmingly,” Aoba says, staring at his own reflection in his drink. His expression is childish in its simplistic worry. He wishes he was looking at someone else’s face. Someone with a face that said they had an idea of what to do.

“Alright, new approach. Be honest.”

“By saying what, exactly?” Aoba asks, glancing at Mizuki.

Mizuki’s lips pull into a nibbling sort of pout, brows drawing together in what are the sure signs are the starting of a bad impression.

“I’m Aoba, and I think you’re a hunk and a half. Take my goddamn money, because I hate it. I hate it and I like you, so let me make you like me with money.”

“Jesus, I can’t believe you’re allowed to live alone,” Aoba says. “Where are you pulling half this stuff out of, your ass?”

“Not half,” Mizuki corrects. “A solid twenty percent.”

Aoba sighs through thinned lips and sips his drink. It’s bitter on his tongue, bitter down his throat, and bitter in his stomach. The silence between them is half companionable, half frustration as the minutes pass. Ice clinks as it resettles in the glasses they each have before them. Mizuki dips a finger into his own, swirls it before pulling it back out and sucking the alcohol from it thoughtfully.

“So I see you’re not arguing that you think the other eighty percent is also bullshit,” Mizuki says, his words soft and hazy.

Aoba pushes his drink away, folds his arms on the counter before he chews the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“No use in lying about it, I guess,” he says. “Especially when you’d call me out on it.”

Mizuki lets out a too-loud whoop of laughter and gives Aoba a friendly slug to the arm.

“Damn straight,” he agrees. “And if the money is burning such a hole in your pocket, you’re free to put it in mine.”

Aoba snorts at that, immediately regrets it as a fizz of alcohol burns his sinuses. 

“I’m not letting Mink win that easily. I’m sure I’ll figure something out. I’ll get it back to him, and that’ll be it.”

“That’ll be it?” Mizuki echoes.

“That’ll be it,” Aoba assures.

The expression of the man mirrored in his drink says he doesn’t want that to be it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> broom broom i'm on me mink's bike.

Aoba smells the storm before he sees it. It's in the crisp bite of cold wind that rushes in with every customer that opens the door, the static sensation that seems to fill every bit of air that hasn't already turned muggy. Aoba's elbow aches in that warning way as the troubling clouds start to crowd the sky.

The weather report lied, its promise of sunny skies nowhere to be seen. Aoba can only blame himself for believing in it.

Fat drops of water begin to fall as the sun goes into hiding. Outside people run with their heads covered by their hands and newspapers. Some find shelter in the shop, all easy, surprised laughter as they find their hair and clothes damp. They order hot drinks and sweet snacks, warm themselves before braving the weather once more. 

The flocks come next, those that are prepared with rain boots and umbrellas, pulled up hoods and bundled coats. They come in bunches of twos and threes, their orders on their lips before Aoba can ask for them. They keep him busy, hands full of hot mugs and warmed pastries. He doesn’t watch the clock or the sky. Doesn’t notice how it’s nearing close and there’s nothing but blackness above the shop, no sign of moon or stars.

It’s only as the first strike of lightning splits across the sky, thunder shuddering through the shop in its wake, that he stops to check for his umbrella. The spot it usually takes up is bare. He isn’t surprised so much as disappointed. As someone who can barely remember to lock a door, he doesn’t know why he’d expect himself to come prepared.

He debates ringing Mizuki or Koujaku to bring him an umbrella, but decides quickly against it. Those options seem almost too sensible, and they’d rib him something fierce for his airheadedness. He’d rather end up drenched than deal with weeks of reminders. He nearly convinces himself it’s not that bad out as he flips the chairs and sweeps the floors.

He finds himself standing uneasily under the overhang of the shop once he’s closed up for the night. He lets his weight move slowly from one foot to the other, all small restless movements and sighs as he peers up at the blackened sky. The clouds don’t bunch together so much as blend, one heavy blanket unbroken blanket.

The occasional gust sends rain whipping at Aoba, and he pulls away to press his back to the storefront, the cold wetness stinging at his exposed skin and seeping into his too-light clothes. Five more minutes, he decides, then he’ll make a break for it if it hasn’t let up by then.

It’s the same thing he told himself five minutes ago.

He tells himself this more times than he’d like to count. Enough times that his soles start to ache with how long he’s waited, his clothes more wet than dry. His bones have an awful, stiff ache settling into them, and the longer he stands around the worse it gets. It starts to eat at his thoughts until it’s the only thing there, and it’s not until a light flickers off that he snaps from his inner workings.

He doesn’t recall the light being on the begin with.

He raises his head to look at the new patch of darkness, sees a door open, a tall figure step out, and then close it.

Mink.

Their eyes meet before Aoba can look away, and then Aoba finds he can’t look away even after that. Mink’s hand turns at the knob to check the sureness of the lock, and he nods once in recognition. His coat is heavy and thick, does nothing but add to his size. There’s a scarf wrapped around his throat, looped and tied neatly, like something out of a pictorial. His boots are black to the point of looking slick, even before being touched by the rain.

Aoba reminds himself to nod back.

“Evening,” Mink says, though it’s past ten now. His voice has all the sure security of a police officer.

“Yeah, that,” Aoba breathes. He feels the words leave his numbing lips, watches as they become a cold puff of air that fades before him.

“Waiting for someone?” Mink asks. He’s the one to look away now, glances at the tarp-covered mass that must be his parked motorcycle at the curb.

“Nah,” Aoba says. He eases his chilled hands into his back pockets, finds slivers of paper in one of them. He rolls the pieces between his fingers a moment before he identifies the worn texture of them.

Money. The money that Mink had given back to him, specifically. He’d been keeping it tucked in his back pocket, ready for the moment when a way to return it, to finally win at their back and forth game that had been growing. 

Now doesn’t seem like a good time.

“Do you need a ride?” Mink asks, and his voice is closer now. Closer to Aoba than to his motorcycle. 

Aoba shakes his head. What he needs is a swift kick in the pants and a brain that doesn’t go on the fritz whenever Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome shows up. That’d be real fucking swell right about now. 

"Do you _want_ a ride?" Mink asks this time.

Aoba chews the inside of his cheek. Yes, of course he wants a ride. He wants to get out of the cold and wet and into his own house, his own shower, his own cozy bed.

"If it's not too much trouble," Aoba answers, and only then it's because Mink steps closer, and turning him down stops being an option in Aoba's mind.

Mink makes a noise in the back of his throat, a sign that he's heard Aoba. He gestures with one hand for him to stay where he is, goes to pull the tarp from his motorcycle after that. There's a single helmet on the seat, and when he beckons Aoba over, he hands it to him.

Aoba puts it on with wet, clumsy fingers, this thanks muffled by the visor of the helmet. He watches Mink mount the motorcycle, a leg swung over as he settles into the seat, his hands spanning to grip the handlebars. He motions with a nod for Aoba to climb on as well.

Aoba doesn't have an ounce of the grace Mink does when it comes to getting on. He doesn't sit so much as he clambers, unsure of his weight and the center of his gravity. There seems too little space for him to sit, and too much of Mink in front of him.

He slips his arms around Mink's waist, touch light and unsure as he wriggles to adjust himself. He turns his head to the side to stare off into the dark, the side of the helmet resting between Mink's shoulder blades.

It's nowhere near as comfortable as the television has always made it look.

Aoba shivers as the rain beats down on them, steels himself for the inevitable roar of the engine beneath him. The way his feet perch on metal tells him a second body was never intended to be back here.

"Tighter," Mink says, and Aoba feels the thrum of his words more then he hears them.

He mulls the words over in his head, doesn't understand if that's slang for something bike-related.

"Hold on tighter," Mink says. "The roads are wet, you've obviously never been on a motorcycle before, and I'd prefer you not slip and hydroplane at the first turn.”

"Oh, right," Aoba says, soft enough that he hardly hears himself.

His fingers curl into Mink's coat, his arms tensing as his elbows come to settle in the slight dips of Mink's waist. His muscles nearly string themselves to the point of snapping when the engine comes to life, Aoba's entire body startling with a hard jerk.

They're two blocks down the road before Aoba realizes he hasn't told Mink where he lives. He licks his lips to speak his address, but the rumble of the motorcycle drowns out any noise he makes.

He resigns himself to watching the streets pass by, squints to read their names in the dark. When they become familiar, a right turn soon approaching, he finds the corresponding elbow nudging itself closer to Mink's side.

Mink turns then, slower and not as sharp as Aoba expects. He still finds himself clinging tight to the broad frame before him. In the helmet, all he hears is the heavy rasp of his own breath, the starting chatter of his teeth, and the hard beat of his pulse in his ears.

It's two turns and a long stretch later before he finds the motorcycle slowing. His arms are all but locked around Mink in a vice, clinging more fiercely to him than the cold clings to his bones. He loosens his grip one frozen finger at a time, and when he's no longer holding onto Mink for dear life, they're at a stop.

Right outside of his house.

His sigh of relief fogs the visor as he lets his arms slide from Mink, feet clumsily touching base with the ground. A gold star sticker for his autopilot, he supposes as he clumsily climbs off the back of the motorcycle.

He pulls the helmet off and blinks at the rain that immediately falls on his face, catches on his lashes and peppers his cheeks. Mink stays seated, one hand resting on the handlebars, the other reaching to take the helmet as Aoba returns it.

"Thanks," Aoba says, and when Mink puts the helmet on, he finds himself with no eyes to make contact with.

His own eyes flicker from his reflection in the vision, his drenched hair, the way his bangs cling to his forehead. His gaze move downward, flicker over Mink's tied scarf and the lapels of his coat. There's a pocket on the right breast, and genius strikes Aoba fast as the lightning reaches the ground around them. He slips a hand into his back pocket, fishes from it the now-damp bills, and proceeds to tuck them into the breast pocket.

"Keep the change, taxi man," he says with a wave as he turns.

He’s inside the house with his shoes shucked and wet socks peeled off before he hears the engine start again. Halfway up the stairs it’s pulling away, nothing more than a distant rumbling in seconds. He manages a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes before regret twinges in his stomach. By the time his head hits the pillow, the twinge has turned to a curdling.

He’d told Mizuki it’d be over once he returned the money. Now, he knows, he doesn’t want it to end.


	10. Chapter 10

Three days go by without any sign of Mink. Aoba tells himself he doesn’t see him because, well, he has two of those three days off. Not that he spends them accomplishing much. He finds himself housebound as the storm settles in for the weekend. It ebbs and flows like ocean waves, sometimes pulling back, nearly revealing the sun before its crashing back down again, all hard hail and pelting rain.

He thinks he hears a motorcycle once or twice, gets up to rush to the window, hands on the sill as he peers out. The road outside is empty each time. When night falls and he tries to sleep, body restless and unable to keep from fidgeting, he knows exactly what keeps him awake.  


Emotions are stupid things, and he wishes he could shut them off with the ease of a button.

When he goes back to work on the third day, the majority of his time is spent staring out the windows, quick to hone in on each and every person that passes by. His heart gives a jump when he sees height, or the wave of long, dark hair. Each time as the details fill themselves in, he’s left with a rush of disappointment that turns his blood cold. 

By the time Mizuki drops in, Aoba’s given up hope.

“Looking glum, chum,” Mizuki says as he makes his way to the counter.

“Am not.”

“Eager to prove my point I see,” Mizuki says. He taps his fingers on the counter. “Pumpkin spice?”

“Coming right up,” Aoba says as he turns away, back to Mizuki as he starts his drink. It doesn’t stop Mizuki from talking to him.

“Missing the beau?” he asks.

“He’s not my beau,” Aoba says, and it comes out rushed and defensive.

“But you do miss him.”

Aoba throws a look over his shoulder, it’s meant to be sharp and very shut-up-already, but his eyebrows refuse to cooperate appropriately.

“Three days,” Aoba says.

“Since you last saw him? Jeez, you sound like a middle schooler that can’t be parted from their math-class sweetheart.”

Aoba puts extra whipped cream on Mizuki’s drink as retaliation for the jab.

“Very adult of you,” Mizuki says as he takes his drink, hands over bills and spare change. “I don’t even know why you think you would’ve seen him. You didn’t work this weekend, and last I checked his shop is closed on Mondays.”

“It is?” Aoba asks, and there’s a stupidly hopeful note in his voice he can’t stop from sneaking in.

“Last I heard,” Mizuki says with a shrug. “Man, if you need romantic advice, I’m down to talk, you know?”

“Gee, advice from someone who’s forever single. Can’t see how that would go wrong.”

“I’m single because I’m smart enough not to fall in love," Mizuki says with a wink. It looks really forced and Aoba winces a little. “But you, poor Aoba, your idiocy is terminal.”

The door bells chime as Aoba readies himself for a comeback, and he quickly turns the insult into a light and airy greeting for the customer that’s pushed open the door. The words catch on the edge of his teeth when he sees who it is. Sees that stature, the sure way that he strides forward, one arm swinging loosely and a book tucked under the other.

The only thing that hitches his mind as a new detail are the glasses on his face, the frames thin and silvered, the lenses clean.

“Like I said, hit me up if you need advice,” is Mizuki’s last imparted wisdom as he raises his drink in a cheer before he’s gone.

Aoba hasn’t even begun to compose himself by the time Mink’s made his way to the counter, the overhead lights shining off his lenses as he looks up to read the menu. The gold of his eyes skims quick and steady, making fast work of what’s to be had.

“The same as last time,” Mink says.

“Hot or cold?” Aoba asks, because it’s all his mind can handle right now.

Mink pauses, seems to search the counter for an answer.

“Hot,” he says.

Aoba rings him up, and if Mink notices how his fingers hits the discount button, he doesn’t mention it. Aoba figures it’s allowed. It is for family and friends after all. What is not allowed is that he very clearly sees Mink reaching into his wallet, all soft faded leather, and pulling out two familiar rumpled twenties.

“No,” Aoba spits immediately, and it sounds like he’s scolding a dog. His hand goes to cover the tip jar.

“I would appreciate it if you would tend to my order,” Mink says, his own hand still poised to put the bills in the jar.

“Well, I would appreciate if you didn’t try to sneak that in there,” Aoba says.

Mink’s hand falls to rest on the counter, money trapped under the flat of his palm. His index finger taps the counter three times, slow and thoughtful. His throat clears with a noise like a sigh.

“Why are you so against having this money?” Mink asks.

“I could ask you the same,” Aoba says, taking the tip jar and moving it beneath the counter to free his hands to make Mink’s drink.

“I never asked for it,” Mink says. 

“Yeah, well,” Aoba starts, only for no other words to come. 

It’s not like he asked for the money back. It isn’t about the money to begin with. It’s about the exchange, the back and forth. It gives him reason to see this man that until recently didn’t exist to him. That money has been the catalyst for each interaction, and Aoba’s quickly run out of ways to utilize it.

“I won’t know how to give it back anymore,” Aoba finally musters. “I mean, like, I wouldn’t have a reason to see you anymore. I’d be stuck with this dumb money and nothing else.”

Mink’s finger gives a final tap against the counter before he’s tucking the bills back into his wallet, flipping it closed and returning it to his pocket. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he looks at Aoba, gives him that slow, cat like blink that he had in the very beginning of all this.

“You don’t need a reason to visit me,” he says. “Especially considering when you’re so close.”

Aoba doesn’t know how to respond to that, and there’s a sweet sort of relief that eases through him as Mink turns away. Its four strides before he takes a seat at an empty table, laying his book out before him and flipping it open. There’s a serenity to watching him, a quiet kind of calm as he thumbs the pages before finding an old feather that looked to serve as a bookmark.

Aoba makes the same drink he did before, only slower this time. His hands are careful as they work, ingredients measured and mixed. He grabs a slice of spiced bread from the glass display, a complimentary treat that in turn compliments the drink. Instead of calling Mink’s name out when his order is finished, something that seems nothing short of stupid in the empty shop, Aoba carries the order to his table.

The plate clatters too much as he sets it down, and the drink sloshes against its lid. But neither of them comment on it. Aoba retreats to the counter the moment Mink thanks him, pretends to busy himself with cleaning he’s already finished during the lull. He replaces the tip jar on the counter, organizes napkins, and restocks the sugar.

Ten minutes later he’s back at Mink’s table, asking the policy-required question that is, “How is everything?”

“Enjoyable,” Mink says.

It’s the shortest response Aoba’s ever gotten to the question, yet the most satisfying. He pauses a moment to let it sink in, hand coming to rest on the back of Mink’s chair. He thumbs the dark wood, glances at the book Mink still has before him. The cover is faded from years, the pages rounded at the edges from wear.

“That any good?” he asks.

He doesn’t expect anything more than another one word answer, but then Mink speaks, really speaks. His tone is smooth and the words come with ease, no stutters or stops as he begins to explain. There’s a soothing evenness to his inflection, no quick pitch changes or jumps, nothing but a calm stream to serve up an explanation.

By the time another customer walks in, Aoba finds his knees have locked and numbed from standing in place so long. He apologizes quickly, more to Mink than the other customer, and makes his way back to the counter to resume his work. Not a word of what Mink’s told him has sunk in, but the pattern of his speech and the sound of his voice still curl in Aoba’s thoughts.

As drizzle starts to drift down and a steady trickle of patrons make their way in for hot drinks and shelter, Aoba finds himself unable to return to Mink. By the time he’s done, the table is empty, already wiped clean and the chair tucked in. No sign that anyone was sitting in it to begin with.

When Aoba closes the shop for the night, the sky smattered with clouds and the twinkle of stars, he finds a motorcycle already pulled to the curb and waiting for him. He climbs on with more confidence than he had before, arms slipping easily around Mink’s waist for the second time. He holds on more tightly than need be, feels the warmth of the body before him through the thick of his clothes. Aoba’s grateful for the layers, sure that if they weren’t there, Mink would notice the rapid beat of his heart as it tried valiantly to evacuate his chest.

Aoba lingers when they come to a stop outside of his house. He thinks for one, two, three seconds before he squeezing Mink tightly from behind, shoulders hunching forward and closing any space between their bodies in an embrace. A hand settles on his forearm as he hugs Mink, rests there instead of trying to remove his grip.

When Aoba finds himself in bed that night, the only way he can describe his day is as... enjoyable.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s Aoba who goes to Mink next, nudges open the flower shop door with one shoulder, a drink in each hand. He’s had enough coffee during the early shift he took to figure one more won’t hurt. Even if it does, he’ll be too hype to give a shit at the very least. 

“Up to anything fun?” Aoba asks as he approaches the back, peering at the paper on counter. The penmanship is impeccable, all closed o’s and slightly slanted l’s.

“Inventory,” Mink replies.

“Sounds... fun. Okay, no. Not really, but still,” Aoba says, placing one of the drinks next to Mink. “Think a little pick me up could help?”

Mink sets his pen down at that, looks up from his paperwork with clear gold eyes and an interested arch of his brow.

“Stopping in before work?” he asks.

“Nah, just got off. Figured I’d come make trouble for you, what with you saying I didn’t need a reason to.”

“Fair enough,” Mink says, taking a sip of his drink. His lips have a way of curling that isn’t a smile, but may as well be one. 

He doesn’t offer Aoba a seat, but from what Aoba can see, it’s not as though there is one he could take. Aoba instead resorts to leaning against the counter with one hip, mouth preoccupied with his own drink. He stands and watches Mink work, sees the names of flowers he’s never known written out in a script that must be as beautiful as they are.

Aoba’s not sure he could classify the quiet between them as strictly companionable. It’s more like there’s an emptiness, not something that needs to be filled, but by Aoba’s presence. Something he slots easily into without being told, and without needing to ask. It was just him, Mink, and an odd kind of tension. It’s hardly there, barely noticeable, no more that the shadow of a minnow beneath the surface of water.

It’s not even unpleasant. Simply there, and neither of them vocalize it.

Aoba finds himself resting more heavily on the counter as time passes, his drink draining as his posture starts to come undone. He’s nearly slipped his hip off the corner when Mink flips to a fresh page, flicks his gaze up to meet his.

“You’re free to rest on the table.”

With permission granted, Aoba sets his near-empty drink down to hoist himself the few extra inches up onto the table. There’s a childlike aspect to it he can’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy, feet swinging lazily as they’re freed of bearing weight. He sits back with a palm planted on the table for support, quietly eyeing the paper as Mink returns to his writing.

“What’s that one?” Aoba asks after another long interval of quiet. He points to a freshly-written name, careful not to touch it for fear of smudging the ink.

“Delphinium,” Mink says. “Also known as larkspur. Toxic to humans and a good deal of fauna. Finicky to transplant.”

Aoba sniffs, nods like he’s going to remember this.

”Is it pretty?”

“The color range is more extensive than can be easily explained,” is Mink’s answer. Aoba takes that as a yes.

It’s only after he’s filled another two pages with names and numbers that Mink pushes the papers away, sets the pen down neatly on top of them. He takes to sipping his drink after that, reward for a job well done before he’s looking up at Aoba, gaze not so much scrutinizing as much as it is observing.

A lock of hair falls in front of his ear that gets Aoba in just the wrong way. He watches it curl loosely at the end, a warm and golden tone that makes his fingers curl with the want to brush it. He tries to look at something else, anything else, but his eyes stay focused and his desire doesn’t ebb.

“Sorry,” he apologizes in advance as he reaches forward, fingers catching the hair before he’s tucking it neatly behind Mink’s ear. He barely grazes the skin, and regrets not having more contacted. “It was kinda bugging me. I mean, not you. The hair, yeah?”

Mink smiles, the first smile Aoba’s seen from him. It’s turned up soft at the edges and his eyebrows have a way of knitting ever so slightly as he does it.

“I know what you mean,” Mink assures, and then his hand is reaching up as well, knuckles skimming against Aoba’s cheek before his fingertips are brushing at his bangs, careful and methodical as they push Aoba’s bangs from his eyes.

Aoba is suddenly keenly aware of what Grams’ hot flashes must be like, because this has got to be one. It’s a heat he can’t easily pinpoint or describe, all over and far reaching, starting in his veins and sinking to the marrow of his bones. It’s dangerously hot and beautiful, like star-heat. It hurts, and he likes it.

He likes Mink.

Mink, who’s still looking up at him.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Aoba says, and the words are like sawdust in his mouth and he needs to spit them out. “I mean, I want to kiss you. Very much."

Mizuki’s going to have a field day once he hears about this flubbed confession.

"You're going to kiss me," Mink repeats, except it doesn't sound like a hollow echo. It sounds like an encouragement and half a command.

And Aoba does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYYY short chapter, but at least they kissed. Sort of. And that's what the spirit of Christmas is all about, right? Thank you to everyone that's been so wonderfully supportive through kudos and comments lately, you're all totally rad. Special shout out to Kris for the awesome [fan art.](http://2spookydratini.tumblr.com/post/99066524303/these-are-literal-scribbles-because-im-just)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KISS, KISS, FALL IN LOVE.  
> Oops, another short chapter.

Mink’s lips are as soft and warm as Aoba’s found himself imagining them. He’s timid at first as he leans in, nothing more than a tentative press that he holds for two seconds before pulling back. Except he can’t pull back, not with the way Mink’s hand has come up to cup the back of his neck, firm and urging him forward.

Mink tastes of the sweetness of his drink, the touch of whipped cream and the drizzle of caramel. There’s the undercurrent of cinnamon there, stronger when Mink’s lips part and then their tongues are sliding together. It’s the perfect blend of bitter and spice, touched by the smoke that Aoba’s come to associate with the shop.

When he pulls back it’s only out of the necessity for breath, tongue flicking over his lips.

Fingers card through his hair, light and careful enough to send a full body shiver through Aoba and start a buzzing in his head.

“Was that okay?”

“Next time,” Mink starts, and Aoba sees his tongue flick over his teeth, “make me whatever you had.”

Aoba’s breath leaves him in an airy noise between a laugh and a gasp.

“Sure,” he says, as if his thoughts aren’t such a hazy mess that he can’t recall what he’d made himself.

Mink takes his papers in hand then, stands up with the light scratch of chair legs on wood. He leans in for another kiss, quick and biting in a way that leaves Aoba too stunned to fully reciprocate before they’re parting again. Aoba slides from the table when Mink starts to walk away. He’s not sure where they’re going, and even less sure of how to ask. He’s not even sure if he’s supposed to come with.

Nevertheless he pads along, leaves the shop and strolls down the street with Mink. Their fingers almost touch, and then do touch. Aoba glances to the side to see if it’s intentional, sees nothing but Mink staring straight ahead, profile noble and gaze forward-focused. Aoba brushes the back of his hand against Mink’s to search for a reaction.

The reaction isn’t on his face. It manifests instead in how his hand covers Aoba’s, palm broad and warm and squeezing around his own hand. The contact is brief and blissful, sends a hearty shot of excitement through Aoba’s nerves and heats him in the face of the cold afternoon air that nips at his skin.

They find themselves at the post office, and Aoba is quiet as he stands beside Mink. It seems archaic and outdated to him, this method of ordering new stock. But he supposes flowers are, in a way, archaic and outdated themselves. In a fast-paced world that’s about instantaneous gratification, they’re slow growing and needy of attention, give nearly nothing in return.

And yet they still find a way to thrive, made into gifts of romance, apology, or condolences. Maybe there’s more to appreciate to them than Aoba’s noticed, and maybe there’s more to appreciate to the people that care for them.

His thoughts stutter to a halt when his coil sounds, echoing in the quiet of the post office and drawing glances. Aoba murmurs an apology to no one in particular as he checks the screen, sees a missed message from Mizuki. Right, that guy. They were supposed to meet after Aoba got off work. But then he’d gotten caught up visiting Mink. And then kissing him. And now going to the post office.

Guilt curls thick in his stomach as he starts to type out a response. 

“Had to help Grams with the trash, be there soon.”

His coil goes off again before he can even open his mouth to speak to Mink.

“Funny how your phone autocorrects ‘Mink’ to “Grams.”

Busted.

Aoba worries his lip as he lets his arm drop, looks up to find Mink’s eyes already on his. There’s a resigned sort of sigh that leaves his mouth before he works out the words to speak.

“Sorry, gotta run for now,” Aoba says, shrugging like there’s no helping it. “But I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Mink nods once, and Aoba waits for something more. A kiss, a hug, some parting display of affection. He gets it in the form of a hand on his back, centered between his shoulder blades, drifts down each vertebrae of his spine before it’s settling on the small on his back. The light press of a thumb stroking the spot through his shirt sends his heart right to his throat.

“I’ll let you know when the larkspur are in,” are Mink’s parting words to Aoba.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter central. At least the next chapter is a darn good hunk of words. Like, 3,000 of them.

“Amazing, absolutely amazing,” Mizuki says as Aoba finishes recounting the events of the day. “First of all, you’re almost off the hook for leaving me hanging so long.”

“Almost?”

“Only almost,” Mizuki reaffirms. “Because you still stood me up, even if it was for a hottie.”

Aoba lifts a hand in agreement. He can’t fault Mizuki for that.

“Secondly, your prognosis is a little grim. I mean, at first I thought this was a basic case of homo lust, but after hearing more about your symptoms, I think you may be suffering from advanced gay.”

“Wow, advanced gay. Sounds pretty serious, doc,” Aoba deadpans.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Aoba says. “At least, I don’t think I’m doing anything about it.”

“Uh huh. Just like how this was going to be all over once you handed the money back over, right?”

“Exactly like that,” Aoba says. Nothing like that, he tells himself.

“Well if you feel like talking over your treatment options, I’m all ears,” Mizuki says. He smiles like he can already see how Aoba’s going to come running to him for advice. 

Aoba’s not going to give him that satisfaction. Except he is. Just not so early on.


	14. Chapter 14

Aoba finds visiting Mink a daily routine of his.

He brings drinks of all sorts, hot and cold, bitter or sweet. He totes baggies of pastries that aren’t fresh enough to be sold, not stale enough to be tossed. And in turn Mink repays him with gifts of flowers that aren’t quite as fresh as they could be, or have been hung for months until they’re fragile and faded, all that more beautiful for it. 

Time passes with its quiet quickness, turns the days from short and dreary to shorter and drearier. Red leaves turn gold, then dark and fragile underfoot. Rain becomes sleet, and then the silent drift of snow.

Mink teaches Aoba the difference between dragonsnaps and foxgloves, and in turn Aoba educates Mink on the finer nuances of coffee.

It’s as he’s tasting the salted caramel on Mink’s lips and enjoying the palm that’s slipped under his shirt to grip at his waist that it hits him. Shit, he’s so gay. Mizuki was right, he really does have advanced gay. Chances are it’s too late for treatment, too. He doesn’t want treatment anyway, he thinks.

He likes this, the way his skin prickles hot at the touch of another, how his breath rattles at the thoughts of things to come. Even the fear that strikes him at night, the realization that he is slipping fast and headfirst to a feeling that makes him open and needy and vulnerable in a way he has no control over can’t rein him in.

He wants more from Mink. More of his hands, his lips. The heat of his skin pressed close, the weight of his body held near and everything else he has to offer. And as the snow outside drifts down and neither of them feel much like going out in the cold, Aoba’s not afraid to haul himself on to Mink’s desk and voice what he’s thinking.

“You state an interesting case,” is Mink’s response. 

He continues to look at his paperwork. Or where his paperwork should be. Aoba’s got no qualms with sitting right on top of it, knees spread and legs lightly kicking. He plants his palms on the desk between his thighs, hunches low to lean in close to Mink’s face. 

“And your official ruling?” Aoba asks.

“The eyewitness testimony was quite motivating, but the evidence is lacking. I need time to review it.”

Aoba stares good and hard as he processes the words. They don’t click together right at first, and when they do, he doesn’t want to accept them.

“Are you being honest to god for real with me right now? Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough,” Aoba says hotly, hormones quick to override. “I basically invited you to bend me over your desk and have me.”

“If that’s truly what you’d like, I can give you that.”

Aoba turns his head to the side, eyeing Mink suspiciously. His usual smooth tone makes it impossible to tell if he truly means it.

“You joking?”

“Do I joke?”

“Not really, and you’re kinda crap at it no offense. It’s sort of endearing, actually.”

Mink pushes himself up from his seat at that, and for a moment Aoba things he’s gone and busted what little mood there was to begin with by running his mouth. He turns his head to watch as Mink walks away, closer and closer to the door of the shop. His stomach twists hard and cold for a second as he thinks Mink is going to walk right out.

The faint click of the door locking is what he hears next, and when he turns back to face Aoba and moves toward him with those long, even strides, chill in his stomach is quick to warm.

“So you were being serious,” Aoba says, his tongue catching against his teeth.

“As you’ve noticed, I don’t really joke,” Mink says.

He comes around the desk, nudging Aoba’s leg aside as he opens a drawer. Aoba’s familiar with what’s in it, the mix of small jars and tinctures, all of them filled with mixtures made by Mink’s hand, and with the flowers of his shop. There are creams and salves, things Aoba’s spread over winter-dried patches of skin and coffee-scalded spots.

He pulls a small, dark jar from the back of the drawer, and Aoba shifts on the table with interest.

“You never told me were this crafty. Got something for every situation, huh?”

“I find it more useful if my mixtures have multiple applications.”

Aoba lets his head fall back with a chuckle, rich and easy. His heart is hardly as calm, racing too quick before stuttering for two, four, six beats. His breath seems to gather only in his throat, never quite making it to his lungs and creating a heady sort of dizziness.

“I recall you saying you’d be bending over the desk.”

Aoba runs his tongue over his upper teeth as he raises his eyebrows, pausing a moment before he slips off the desk only to turn his back to Mink. He slides his hands across the desk, palms supporting him. He doesn’t bend so much as he leans forward, head turned to glance behind himself at Mink.

“Are you nervous?” Mink asks.

“In a good way,” Aoba answers. 

He gasps soft in surprise when Mink’s hand comes up to grip the back of his neck. His hold is firm, fingers managing to curl and snag in Aoba’s hair, sending shocks of light pain and pleasure as he pushes Aoba down until he’s held to the table, papers rustling beneath him. The gentility of the hand that comes up to undo his belt is far at odds with the one still keeping him down.

Aoba would almost be surprised if it weren’t for the fact that Mink had turned down every vanilla drink he’d offered. Guy just wasn’t vanilla to begin with.

The short jerk of Mink’s hand in his hair scrambles his thoughts as his neck is exposed. He feels Mink press up against him from behind, body fitting to his and leaving no space between them. The lips and teeth that mouth at the pale skin of his neck are far from unwelcome as they find their way along his pulse, leaving reddened marks in their wake.

It’s nice to be young enough to skip the unrealistic pre-romance to sex, yet not so old as to skip the raunchy foreplay. His body is quick to react to each touch, from a hot trail of saliva against his skin, to fingers that deftly unzip his jeans before pulling them down to his thighs in a single, swift yank. His underwear follows before his heart has the time to pulse.

“Not one to waste time, huh?” Aoba asks, lets his breath come out in a rattling sigh as his half-hard dick brushes against the desk.

“I was under the impression you weren’t interested in moving slow,” Mink says.

Aoba hums and shrugs, ears tuning into the soft unscrewing sound that arises after the hand that had undone his pants dropped away. The fine hairs on his arms stand in anticipation, and the grip on his neck forces him flatter. He grits his teeth as the first finger sinks into him. It’s overly careful and slick, his body hardly tensing in response before he’s pushing himself back onto it. 

He’s been waiting too long to take it slow.

“Not made of glass, y’know,” Aoba says, wasting no time as he rocks his hips forward only to sink down. His blood rushes hot beneath his skin, his senses fogged with that certain sort of bliss.

Mink’s response isn’t so much as a word or a grunt, but another finger works its way into Aoba. The aching sensation of the stretch brings a noise from Aoba he doesn’t want to admit he can make, a whining sort of moan he can’t hold back. His eyes shut of their own accord, his focus falling solely to the curl and twist of the fingers within him.

He finds himself unable to think of wanting more, of wanting it faster. He comes more undone with each crook and rub, hoarse pants leaving him 

The hand that grips his neck clamps harder when Aoba lets a hand slide from the table to reach for his dick, pulling a hiss past his lips before he’s got his hands where Mink can see them again. The grip keeps him looking straight ahead when the fingers ease from him, his own body clenching down hard in an effort to keep them in.

He rests his cheek against the cool wood of the desk in a moment of respite, eyes half-lidded and sweat starting to bead on his brow. His bangs cut into his vision, slivers of bright blue as they stick to his forehead. He can see in his mind’s eyes more than hear the undoing of Mink’s silver belt buckle, the hush of the zipper and the rustle of fabric.

He doesn’t hear or see next, but feels. There’s a heat pressed against his entrance, solid and very much there. He braces himself for what’s to come next, his nerves alright with a mix of apprehension and excitement. But it doesn’t come. There’s a quiet in the air that he’s fast to recognize. It’s hesitation, the drawn out moment of a pause.

“If you don’t fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’ll be the one fucking you,” Aoba says, and in his voice is a spark of electricity and command.

Mink’s chuckle is a deep thrum, something that vibrates through him and into Aoba as he presses in. Not fully, but enough. Enough so that there’s the sore burn as Aoba’s body begins to accommodate him. Mink moves slow and shallow with a romantic sort of gentility that Aoba doesn’t think he can appreciate for long.

“Please, I want this,” Aoba gasps out when it becomes too much a wait. “I want you.”

Mink obliges with a slow roll of his hips to start of rhythm, pulling a stuttering sigh from Aoba. 

Aoba finds that he’s wrong. He doesn’t want this. He needs it. It’s an ache he’s eager for more of, a fullness he craves at a carnal level. Each withdrawal is a loss, the ensuing return a staggering moment of bliss. The hand on his neck slips against the sheen of sweat now gathering there. The fingers entangle fully in his hair at that, anchoring at the roots and tethering them to one another. It’s almost enough to distract Aoba when still-slick fingers encircle his cock.

Almost.

He cries out hard and gives an instinctive thrust into the grip, rocking back only to push himself onto Mink with a quickness that makes his synapses fire too fast and with too much. His chest rests heavy on the desk beneath him, paperwork creasing and crumpling. There’s a sensation in his chest that’s bright and dizzying, and it’s all he wants.

It’s with shaky fingers that Aoba finds himself reaching back, clutches at air once, twice, three times before he’s got a fistful of shirt. He tugs at Mink until they’re flush together, skin against skin with nothing between them. Aoba holds Mink close as his pace increases, rises from measured and shallow to deep, filling thrusts.

Aoba finds his mind too clouded with heat, from what’s within him to the hand that jerks him off in time, to think. To so much as begin to voice when he’s about to come. The pressure burns hot within him instead, body reactive as he moves and arches, hips jerking and breathe leaving him in rasps. His body gives a full body shudder when it becomes too much, thoughts white and each muscle tensed hard as he cums.

His body quickly uncoils to a boneless mess against the desk. He’s only vaguely aware when Mink stills behind him, hips snapping forward as the fingers in his hair snare hard. A brief whimper makes its way past his lips as the overwhelming surge of orgasm starts to drain. He’s sweaty and tired and too-full, stretched to a point of discomfort he’s not sure he can handle anymore. 

There’s the slightest sigh as Mink goes soft within him and pulls out, and he’s not sure which of them it came from, only that it’s a pretty noise he’d like to hear again. It’s an abstract yearning in his mind, something floating among the growing lethargy. He takes a deep breath, then another, raises his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and props himself up on an elbow as Mink’s fingers untangle from his hair.

The slight trickle of something down his inner thigh he’s sure isn’t sweat freezes him in place, and the uncomfortable noise that bubbles in his throat isn’t something that Mink misses.

“Wait here,” he says.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere in a hurry,” Aoba says in turn.

He stays where he is, hears the rush of water from the back room and then Mink’s returning footsteps. He shivers and shifts his weight from foot to foot as a washcloth dampened with nearly too hot water eases over his skin, cleans from him the sweat and cum that mingle. His stomach hollows when the cloth moves over his soft and sensitive flesh. 

A cold dread rises in his gut when the cloth dabs at the denim of his jeans.

“Did it get on my pants?” he asks, knowing full well the answer.

“Not much,” Mink tells him, rubbing a particularly bad spot before pulling back.

Aoba gathers himself enough to stand himself up straight after that, tugs his underwear and jeans up, fingers fumbling with his belt as he buckles it. He fluffs his hair in the ensuing silence, entirely unsure of how to read the air, unsure of what to stay. He lets the quiet continue instead, smooth’s out the papers he’s rumpled and reorganizes the pens knocked askew.

I love you.

He can’t manage the words. Not yet, at least. But he thinks them as he presses his lips to Mink’s after they leave the shop. Thinks it again as he wraps his arms around that sturdy frame and the engine comes to life beneath them. Mouths it to himself as they ride down icy, empty streets. He mouths it silently when they slow to a stop, grip tightening, relaxing, tightening again before he forces himself to dismount. 

Mink’s hand on his forearm stops him from walking away, flexes once before he’s letting go to pull something from his pocket. He presses it into Aoba’s palm, curls his fingers around it before he can see what it is. It’s soft and worn, a familiar texture to it that he can’t entirely pinpoint. 

“For a new pair of pants,” Mink says.

He says it so softly it’s nearly swallowed up by the bike engine as it revs, and the words only sink in once he’s down the street, the lights of his motorcycle curving around a turn.

Aoba lets his fingers unfurl and gaze lower to his hand. He stares at what rests there. Even in the dim light of the street lamps, he can see the two rectangular bills, the denomination inked on their corners. Forty bones.

Blood rushes hot to Aoba’s cheeks as he curls his hand into a fist. He’s fast to bring up Mink’s name on his coil, taps out a message and sends it off with his body still hot.

“Do you think you’re cute?”

The response comes back fifteen minutes later, when he’s already upstairs and almost cooled down.

“No, my mother always said I was handsome.”

Aoba rolls his eyes. He unlatches his coil and tosses it aside to rest on the bed next to the bills. Fine. If Mink wants to play this game, he can have company. Because while Mink may have won the battle, he’ll never win the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this, leave comments, kudos, and even draw fan art. I had a lot of fun writing this, so I'm glad people have enjoyed it. As I've said before, this was a commission, so if you liked it enough to want fic of your own from me, you can always check out my page [here.](http://ahmerst.tumblr.com/post/56193290138/as-im-currently-between-jobs-im-returning-to)


End file.
